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  "Hush, Garreth, hush." She rocked slightly, stroking his hair as he remembered her doing once after Marti died. "The superior man doesn't panic. Let's try studying this thing calmly. Look." She released him and began two lists on her sketch pad. "It's obvious that everything legends say about vampires isn't true. Yes, you rest best on earth, you smell and crave blood, and something is happening to your teeth. On the other hand, while daylight is uncomfortable and debilitating, it doesn't kill you. There's no nonsense with mirrors, either. That would violate physical laws. The subject needs more research, but perhaps most of the legend is false. Maybe you don't have to stop being the person you are, the person Harry and I love. Once your basic needs of rest and food are met, why shouldn't you be able to go on living your life as you always have? Do you understand, Garreth?" Her voice rose, became more insistent. "Garreth?"

  That was a real voice, not a dream. He opened his eyes, waking as he had all his life, from sleep to awareness in a breath. That, at least, had not changed. The sky showed crimson through the tree above him and Lien knelt at his side with an expression of relief.

  "You're the soundest sleeper I've ever seen," she said. "I don't think you moved all day. I couldn't even see you breathe. I kept coming out to make sure you were still alive." She paused. "Did you know it's almost impossible to feel your pulse? Your skin is cold, too. Garreth, please, please, let me take you back to the hospital."

  He sat up stiffly, groping for the dream. An exploring tongue found his teeth looser. Had the dream Lien been right? Could he go on being the same person? "Isn't Harry home yet?"

  "He called to say he'd be late. They're turning the city upside down looking for you."

  Garreth flushed at the reproach in her voice. "Thanks for not giving me away."

  "You needed the rest." She stood. "Come inside. It's freezing out here."

  It did not seem so to him.

  "What do you think you can stomach for supper?"

  His throat burned. A cramp contracted his stomach. He let it pass before answering. "Just tea, please."

  She turned around sharply. "This is ridiculous. You have to eat! Are you trying to kill yourself?"

  Maybe that would be best. Dreams were often just dreams. He did not want to think about eating. "Please, Lien."

  She fixed the tea and stood with arms folded, watching him sip it. "If you won't go back to the hospital, at least show up at Bryant Street long enough to let them know you're alive so they can go back to hunting people who deserve it."

  He hated lying to her. He did it anyway. "All right. I'll turn myself in to Harry."

  She hissed in exasperation. "Don't be childish. It isn't like that and you know it."

  "I'm sorry." The tea curbed none of his hunger, none of the thirst, but at least its warmth soothed the cramps. He stood, clipped on his gun, and put on his coat.

  Lien followed him to the door. "Please take care of yourself."

  He hugged her. "I will. Thanks for everything. You're a super lady."

  Picking up the car from around the corner, he drove to the public library in the Civic Center. The subject needed research, his dream Lien had said. From the books containing information on the vampire legend, he chose some half a dozen and after skimming them, copied a number of pages to study over multiple cups of tea in an all-night cafe. It went fine as long as he considered the information just research, as long as he did not think of it as applying to him personally. Once he let awareness seep in, though, all the horror, the dread, returned in an icy flood. His hands shook so much he could not hold either cup or papers.

  It all seemed so preposterous, a nightmare. If only he would wake up. Or consider it just a delusion born of the trauma of Lane's attack.

  He humored the delusion and resumed reading, still shaking. There appeared to be two kinds of vampires, those like Dracula who walked around talking and reasoning, and the zombies like Miss Lucy, mindless, dripping dirt and graveclothes, driven only by their lust for blood. Lucy had been bitten by Dracula, but he, like Mina Harker, had swallowed some of his attacker's blood in turn. Did that make the difference?

  A question none of the reading answered, however, was why Lane let him live. She had broken Adair's and Mossman's necks to destroy their nervous system and prevent them from rising again. Why had she not done the same for him?

  "Inspector Mikaelian?"

  He started. A uniformed officer smiled down at him. "I saw your car out front. We've been looking for you."

  It had been only a matter of time. Moving unhurriedly, Garreth folded the copied pages and slipped them into the inside pocket of his sport coat. "What are you supposed to do when you find me?"

  "We've already called Lieutenant Serruto in Homicide."

  Garreth stood. "Am I under arrest?"

  The officer looked young. His eyes widened in shock. "Oh, no, Inspector. It's just an Attempt to Locate. You need medical treatment, the bulletin said."

  "I don't, but doctors have to play God. Let's go."

  They waited in the parking lot for Serruto. He arrived with Harry driving. The lieutenant did not bother getting out of the car, just rolled down the window. "Give one of the uniforms your car keys, Mikaelian. Drive the car to the lot at Bryant Street," he told the uniformed officers, "and leave the keys on my desk in Homicide. Get in, Mikaelian."

  Garreth debated trying to run. Even fasting, he bet he could still outrun the rest of them. He weighed that against the suspicion bolting might raise.

  "Get in," Serruto repeated in a voice with steel beneath it.

  Garreth climbed in the back seat, eyes on the nonfunctional handle of the door closing behind him. Trapped!

  "Thanks," Serruto told the officer, and then, as the car left the parking lot, "You monopolized a lot of manpower hours, Mikaelian."

  Garreth slunk down in the seat, flushing guiltily.

  "Mind telling me the meaning of this stunt?"

  Wishing he sounded less defensive, Garreth said, "I don't like hospitals. I felt better but didn't think they would believe me."

  "Really?" Harry said. "Lien called. She told me you were almost comatose all day."

  "I won't go back to the hospital."

  Serruto turned around on the seat to face Garreth. "We can raise a charge of assault to confine you if need be."

  Garreth dug his nails into the palms of his hands. Be cool, man. Vampires can hypnotize with a look. Do it. He looked Serruto straight in the eyes, trying to remember what Lane had done to him. "I don't look sick to you, do I?"

  Serruto stared back, eyes widening, then said in a flat voice, "No. What do you want to do, then? You can't come back on duty without an okay from a doctor."

  "I know. I just want to rest at home for a few days. Then I'll go back for a checkup and let them run their blood tests or whatever." He continued to hold Serruto's eyes.

  "All right. You have sick leave at home."

  "Ah . . . could you arrange a new ID card and badge for me, and a temporary driver's license until I can replace the one in the evidence locker?"

  "See me Tuesday about it."

  Garreth bit his lip to keep from grinning. It worked!

  "Why don't you stay at our place?" Harry asked. "We have a guest room."

  That would not do at all. "I'd rather be home."

  But Serruto had turned around again and was out of Garreth's influence. "You go to Takananda's tonight or we charge you with assault and take you to the hospital."

  Garreth made himself smile. "Yes, sir."

  6

  Garreth did not really sleep. He felt anything but sleepy and he wanted to be sure he was awake before Harry and Lien, so that he could sneak back inside. Sleeping outdoors during the day was one thing; discovering that he had slept out in a chilly night, even when he did not feel the cold, would disturb them. He rested, though-reminded of the times he had gone camping as a Boy Scout, except that this time he felt comfortable instead of wanting an air mattress between him and the ground-and while h
e rested, he considered solutions for the sleeping situation. A coffin was ridiculous, but he did need some kind of container for a layer of earth.

  He sat up, thinking again of the Boy Scouts. An air mattress might work. As soon as possible, he would leave here and try it out.

  In the morning he played with the eggs and toast Lien fixed for him, managing to look like he was eating without actually doing so. He drank only sugared tea and took the vitamins she forced on him.

  "Since Harry is on duty today," she said, "will you come to church with me?"

  The knot in his stomach came not from hunger this time-he no longer felt hunger, only lightheaded euphoria, a common feeling brought on by fasting, he remembered Marti telling him once-but from fear. Church! Well, he might as well find out how it affected him.

  "Of course I'll go."

  Lien drove. Garreth sat with his hands clenched in the pockets of his coat, his eyes hidden from her and the sun by the mirror-lensed trooper glasses. He could not remember the last time he had actually felt religious, though he still went to church with his mother and grandmother when he visited home. He had gone regularly as a child, sandwiched with Shane between his mother and Grandma Doyle, where he could be thumped on the head with a grandmotherly knuckle if he wiggled too much.

  Lien's church was Roman Catholic, but it reminded him of the Episcopal one at home. Garreth could not shake the conviction that he should not be here, but sitting beside Lien, he felt no pain other than that of guilt. Lien touched him with holy water coming in and it did not burn. Would it if he had grown up Catholic? If anything, the light coming through the stained-glass windows and the rhythm of the Mass gave him a kind of peace. He had a feeling that if the tall priest had looked more like Father Michaels-a small, round, laughing man who smelled pleasantly of pipe tobacco and was continually relighting that pipe at the coffee period following Morning Prayer, from a seemingly inexhaustible supply of kitchen matches in the pocket of his black coat-Garreth would have been tempted to confess his vampirism and ask for absolution. Or was that cure for his condition pure myth, too?

  Leaving, Lien said, "Shall we eat lunch at Fisherman's Wharf?"

  His teeth rubbed against the inside of his upper lip, so loose they felt ready to fall out. He had no doubt they would, and that new, sharp ones were even now pushing through his sore gums. A need to be alone overwhelmed him.

  "Another time, please? I think I'd like to go home and sleep." If she argued, he was ready to take off his glasses and use his power on her.

  Though her forehead creased in concern, she did not fight him. "Call me if you need anything."

  He walked her back to her car, then caught a bus for a shopping center, where he bought an air mattress and several bags of earth from the garden section. At home he slit the end of each section of the air mattress and poured in earth a handful at a time until he had a layer of earth an inch or so thick. Mending tape sealed the mattress again.

  Garreth lay down experimentally on the resulting pallet. Ten­sion ran out of him like knots untying. The slightly lumpy surface felt as comfortable as the softest of beds. He sighed in satisfaction. It worked.

  Before he let himself fall asleep, though, Garreth worried the loose teeth free. Pushing his tongue into the spaces left, he felt sharp points coming through the gums and shivered. Somehow the teeth sig­naled a watershed, a point of no return at which he could no longer doubt the thing he had become. The chill of that thought followed him into sleep.

  7

  Hunger woke him, violent, racking cramps that doubled him in bed, rav­enous thirst which would no longer be denied. Garreth felt his teeth with his tongue and found them fully grown, sharp as needles, though to his surprise, they were no longer than the teeth they had replaced. His gut knotted with more than cramps. The metamorphosis was complete and he could no longer avoid the one problem he had refused to think about: food. Tonight he had to find a solution.

  Garreth staggered out of bed to the bathroom and doubled over the washbowl gulping down water. But neither hot nor cold water slaked the burning thirst; it only eased the cramps enough that he could stand upright.

  In the mirror his face loomed gaunt, pale, and unshaven. He was losing weight, he noticed, and grimaced bitterly. After all the times I've dieted without success, this is a hell of a way to-

  He forgot all about weight and stared at his reflected teeth. With the drawing back of his lips in the grimace, the canines, narrower than his previous ones, had grown, extending nearly half an inch. And as he relaxed, they retracted again. Glancing toward the bed in the other room, he thought of Marti and for the first time, rejoiced in her death. At least she had been saved the agony of seeing him like this!

  The length of his beard astonished him, until he thought to switch on the TV and check the programming against the guide-he had better buy another watch to replace the one being kept as evidence. This was Monday evening. He had slept nearly thirty hours.

  He unwound the bandage from his neck. Without surprise he found the flesh scarred but healed. Count the recuperative powers of the vampire as fact, then. Using a pair of nail scissors, he cut and pulled the sutures. Another turtleneck hid the luminous ivory scars.

  Is this proper attire for the hunting vampire? came a bitterly sardonic thought.

  He snatched up a coat and headed for the door.

  Garreth found he still could not think about what he intended to do, how to do it, or where. He let his body take him, guided by its new instincts. He found himself on a bus headed for North Beach. Of course . . . Lane's turf, rich with game.

  He sat staring out the bus window, heartsick, hating himself. How could he bring himself to do this to other human beings? What if he refused? What happened to the starving vampire since he had never heard of them dying for lack of food?

  Leaving the bus at the corner of Columbus and Broadway, he considered the possibility of suicide. It offered a clean solution . . . maybe.

  If vampires could commit suicide. Driving a wooden stake through his heart or breaking his neck sounded difficult to accomplish by himself.

  Humanity streamed around him. He smelled not just their perfume and sweat now but the warm metallic/salty scent of the blood pulsing through their veins. It ignited a frenzy of hunger. His stomach churned. Dear God, don't let me cramp again and attract atten­tion!Occasionally someone passed whose blood ran hot and strong and he turned toward her like a compass to north . . . only to pull back, afraid. How long had it been since he last picked up a girl? Before he met Marti. He had been turned down a fair number of times in those days, he recalled. A refusal now meant more than a blow to the ego; it meant no supper. Worse, what if she came with him? What if he killed her?

  He could not do it. He just . . . could . . . not . . . do . . . it!

  In panic, he turned up a side street and ran, away from Broad­way, away from the blood smells fanning his hunger, and did not stop until the next corner. There he leaned against the wall of a building, swearing at himself. Some vampire he made. What was he going to do?

  Gradually, he became aware of voices around the corner, sharp, full of anger and fear. A man's: "And Richie says you're holding out on him. He don't like that."

  "I'm not," a woman replied. "I just don't get the action. The johns want young girls. I do the best I can. I swear."

  Garreth recognized Velvet's voice. Edging up to the corner, he peered around it. The hooker had been backed up against the building by a man waving a switchblade under her nose.

  "Well, if you can't convince them you're sweet sixteen and a virgin, you better find something else they want, baby, because Richie says you're running in the red. You ain't cost-effective. So unless you get your act together, you will be running in the red. I'll fix your face so you can't get a job ushering at a dogfight."

  Good old Richie, Garreth thought.

  He came around the corner. In two long strides he was on top of the muscleman, clamping a hand on the wrist of the knife hand just
as the man registered Garreth's presence and started to turn. Garreth bent the wrist back. The forearm gave with a sickening crack. He let go of the wrist and smoothly took the knife as the muscleman collapsed screaming to the sidewalk.

  Garreth stepped over him and put a hand under Velvet's elbow. "Come on; let's get out of here." He hurried her back toward Broadway.

  Her eyes looked the size of dinner plates. "Why'd you do that? He wasn't going to cut me this time. Now Richie will get mad."

  "Tell Richie the muscle was getting carried away and was about to use the knife for fun when a friendly flatfoot came along. Better yet, drop a dime on him and we'll nail him to the wall before he does have you carved up."

  She bit her lip. "Sometime, maybe. For now, thanks." She glanced sideways at him. "Say, what's the story on you? First I hear they found you stiff in an alley with your throat torn out, then the word is you sat up on the autopsy table and knocked the knife out of the doctor's hand; now here you are walking around breaking arms with one hand. You look younger somehow, too."

  He restrained a grimace. Drink blood, the Elixir of Youth. "I owe it all to clean living and a pure heart," he said aloud.

  The blood ran hot in her. He smelled it: fear-driven, richly salty, and with it, the near audible hammering of her heart, just now beginning to slow after the terror. He drew a deep breath and, folding the switchblade, dropped it in his pocket. His hand shook with the driving urgency of his hunger.

  He felt her looking at him and glanced over to see her smiling knowingly. She had seen his increase in breathing and misinterpreted it, he realized.

  "Hey, baby. Maybe you'd like to party?"

  He shook his head. "Don't make me run you in for soliciting a cop, Velvet."

  "Did I mention money? This is on the house. Call it saying thanks. Come on." She reached up to ruffle his hair. "Let me show you that blondes really do have more fun."